


the latest in your art of war

by statsmcbitch



Category: Riverdale (TV 2017)
Genre: F/M, Gen, Multi
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-09-20
Updated: 2019-10-03
Packaged: 2020-10-24 23:41:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 17,967
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20714483
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/statsmcbitch/pseuds/statsmcbitch
Summary: For as much as had happened in Riverdale since Jason Blossom died, it never made the tragedies easier to predict. The shadows lurking around the edges of the town moved too slowly; it wasn’t until someone was lost to the darkness that anyone even noticed how far those shadows had spread, how cunningly it had snuck up on all of them.[Ensemble. Spoilers for Riverdale season 4.]





	1. leave my head among the stars

Like all good stories, this one began with a beautiful stranger and a party.

It was a night like any other: a bunch of us, together, holding court in Pop’s, the booths overflowing with laughter and high spirits. We all knew that Riverdale had lost its innocence – if it had ever had any to begin with – but there were still glimpses of it, in moments like these.

Under the fluorescent glow, we were all just kids – again or still, it didn’t matter. All that mattered were these last moments of summer before our senior year.

Leave it to Cheryl to say just the thing to bring it crumbling down – and to say it _loudly_. “Who the hell is that?”

Archie and Veronica twisted in their booth to look, mirror images. Toni craned around Sweet Pea and Kevin looked up from his phone. Betty lifted her head from Jughead’s shoulder, curious. The Bulldogs were, blessedly, obliviously roughhousing in their booth, and the commotion gave cover to their less-than-covert spying.

Not that Betty would call it spying, exactly, and she’d gotten good at knowing the difference. They were just looking. It was late, late enough that Pop’s should have been closed, really, but Veronica hadn’t wanted to lock the doors. This was a come one, come all sort of party – all grudges and differences forgiven. So even though there was an air of party crashing associated with the girl’s appearance, she was not, strictly speaking, unwelcome.

The stranger was tall – _tall-_tall, with a face like a fox, all high cheekbones and mischief. She didn’t take a seat, but leaned up against the counter as she spoke with Pop. 

Reggie looked his fill. “Want me to find out, boss?” he asked, elbow hooked over the back of his booth to smirk at Veronica.

She rolled her eyes as she turned back around, going back to absently twirling the straw in her milkshake. “No harassing my customers, Reginald." Then, to Jughead: “Why do I feel like I should say --” she pitched her voice low “-- _of all the gin joints in all the towns in all the world_…?”

Jughead smirked, then raised a hand to his mouth, as if to wipe it away. “Selling gin upstairs, now?”

Veronica smiled, folding her hands prettily on the table in front of her. Jughead’s eyebrows arched – he knew this posture. He shared an amused glance with Archie, and they readied themselves for the Next Great Veronica Lodge Idea.

“Actually, I’ve been thinking about introducing alcoholic milkshakes to the menu,” Veronica said. “Wholesome, but for the now. Obviously, I’ll need to talk to Pop about it first. This is his place,” she said firmly. “No matter what the deed says.”

In fact, if it wouldn’t have complicated things with La Bonne Nuit, Veronica would have given Pop’s back to its rightful owner a long time ago. She didn’t want to risk Pop being implicated in anything – not that La Bonne Nuit was in the business of illegal gambling much these days. Still – Veronica was the one who looked the other way when her classmates went up to the bar.

Their IDs might be fake, but their cash was very real. 

What Pop didn’t know, or didn’t _want _to know, didn’t hurt him.

Betty leaned forward, eyes bright. “I think that’s a great idea, V. Think of all the people – our parents! – who grew up coming to Pop’s. It would be like, a grown-up version of their childhood treat. I think it would do really well.”

Veronica squeezed Betty’s hand. “Thank you, bestie. Plus, imagine the protection having a liquor license would mean for La Bonne Nuit. Only in an emergency situation, of course.”

“Of course,” Betty, Jughead, and Archie said in unison.

And they were off, rapid-fire brainstorming different recipes, from the classics –

“Spiked strawberry,” Archie said.

Cheryl leaned over the vinyl seat. “In my honor, I’m sure.”

\- to the outrageous -

“I was actually thinking Jager-Bombshell for you,” Veronica quipped.

Archie made a face, disgusted enough to make Jughead and Betty laugh. But Cheryl’s dark eyes flashed, intrigued.

“You’ll just have to surprise me, Ronnie darling,” she said. “_Bisous_!”

\- and back again.

In the end, it was only Jughead left observing the interloper in their midst. In fact, she was almost gone - by now, Pop had prepared a small takeaway bag for her. She turned to leave and almost made it, hand on the door - before coming back to the counter, bidding Pop back to her.

Another question. Pop looked in his direction, then, and Jughead didn’t look away. He said something; then the girl was looking, too. She smiled, first at him, and then at Pop, and then she left – for real, this time.

Jughead tried to watch over Archie’s shoulder as the girl picked her way through the packed parking lot, but at that moment, Archie hauled himself up, half-kneeling on the bench seat.

“Alright, Bulldogs, listen up!”

Betty knocked her shoulder against his, eyes bright. Smiling and looking more excited than she had in weeks. She’d been stressed, lately, her sleep plagued with nightmares and her waking hours plagued with headaches, both literal (migraines, serious enough to keep her tucked in Veronica’s guestroom all day long, or soaking in the free-standing bathtub until the water turned cold), and figurative:

A new-found brother. A missing mom. A not-so-dearly departed dad.

She deserved the night to be perfect, so Jughead nudged her back, got an arm around her shoulders, held her close as Archie held court:

“We’ve got a tradition to uphold tonight. As seniors, it’s our job to make our intentions known to Glendale ---- that they’re _not _winning the Homecoming game. That belongs to _us_.”

Reggie and several of the Bulldogs drummed their hands on the tabletops, rattling the cups of silverware and the salt shakers.

“And what can’t they win without?” Archie asked.

A few kids shouted back at him, any number of things, curling together and echoing and blending in the tin-can that was Pop’s. Veronica was laughing, beautiful – all of the fighting for and over Pop’s, it was worth it, just for this. To still have moments like this.

“That’s right. Their mascot. Jax the Jaguar is gonna come to Riverdale for a few weeks – ” 

More cheers. The crowd was getting excited and antsy in that way teenagers were particularly good at, but they weren’t out of control, yet. Archie still had them – it was something that couldn’t be taught, the way Archie was able to command a room. Even after being gone for the better part of a year, even after all of the rumors and slights against his reputation, when Archie Andrews spoke, the room listened.

In a better world, in the one that he deserved, that magnetism would have made him a star.

In this one, in _our_ world, it had helped him survive.

Jughead let himself get swept up in the energy of the night. He wouldn’t be a Riverdale Bulldog when Homecoming rolled around, but he could sure as hell be one tonight.

~

It was just after two in the morning when Archie finally locked the trophy case, twirling the keyring around a finger before tossing it to Betty. She’d put it back in the office, locked safely in Mrs. Bonaldi’s desk, just like it had never gone missing.

She grinned at him, and together, they stood back to look at the display case. The trophies had been pushed to either side, a little more cluttered and less curated than they usually were, but it left enough room for the Jax costume to stand, propped up right in the center. Its lips were curled back in a permanent snarl, green eyes almost fluorescent under the display lights. 

Around them, the chaos continued. Crepe paper streamers whistled through the air. Betty laughed when a strand of blue silly string fell across Archie’s shoulder.

“Remember, we’re gonna be the ones cleaning this all up, come Monday,” Archie had said, poised on the school’s front steps while Betty worked her magic on the locks. “So don’t make too big of a mess.”

Everyone had laughed and cat-called, but they’d kept it – relatively – clean. No spray painting the lockers, no breaking windows. 

“Senior year, Arch,” she said, soft and quiet, feeling suddenly, foolishly shy.

But Archie just smiled and took her hand. Steady as ever. Together, they watched as Kevin and Ethel wandered down the hallway, deep in conversation. They’d been sticking together since everything had gone down, and both had a lot of deprogramming to do, but they’d be okay.

They all would be.

~~

“Hey stranger.”

Veronica looked up. She’d dressed in her cat-burgular best, as much for old times’ sake as much as for utility. She didn’t think FP Jones was going to show up to arrest any of them tonight, didn’t even really think anyone would even make the call, but it never hurt to be on theme.

Jughead, however, was difficult to hide from no matter what she was wearing. He knew all the best hidey-holes in Riverdale. But now, he was leaning against the doorway, looked like he had been for a while. It reminded her of Jughead from when they’d first met – the Jughead that was more likely to stand back and observe than to crack a joke, the Jughead with a chip on his shoulder. He still wore the hat, but it didn’t seem as much a part of him as it used to be. It seemed more of a choice than a piece of armor.

“Can I join you?”

As if he needed her permission. Even with one foot out the door, _The Blue and Gold_ was his far more than it was Veronica’s. Still – she appreciated him asking, and waved a hand to the room at large. “Please do.”

“Had enough of the revelry?” he asked, hopping up onto a table.

She shrugged. “Just needed a minute of quiet… sometimes, this school doesn’t feel like mine.” It felt silly, insignificant, saying as much to _Jughead _of all people, who had been standing on shifting ground his whole life.

(But so had she, right? She might have had the financial stability he’d always lacked, which she knew counted for a lot – but her parents had been in and out of her life just as much, leaving nothing but expectations and shaky promises to raise their only daughter. Look at them now: behind bars, and still expecting the best of her, asking her to manage her business, succeed in school, and, above all, uphold the family name.

“We are a united front, Veronica,” Hermione had said the last time Veronica had visited her, looking gaunt and tired under the fluorescents. “In front of your father _and _in front of the world.”)

He laughed, like she knew he would, but it wasn’t unkind. For all of his sharp edges, Jughead was rarely mean. “All the more reason to make it yours.”

She quirked an eyebrow at him, intrigued, and laughed a little as he produced a switchblade. “As ever, Mr. Jones - you’re a surprise and a delight,” she said, following him to the windowsill.

The wood was scratched and scarred with age, but clean of graffiti. Veronica thought of the windowsill that Betty had shown her, had shown all of them, with their parents’ initials inscribed. Realized that she wanted that – wanted her and Jughead and Betty and Archie, forever.

“Ladies first,” Jug said, handing her the knife.

Veronica was pleased with how the curved handle felt in her hand. She was finishing up digging out a dainty _V. L. _just as Archie stuck his head in.

“Almost ready to go, guys?”

“Almost,” Veronica said with a smile. “Come here.”

Archie came to her side and she took his hand. Pressed a kiss to his knuckles, held his hand to her chest.

“We’re leaving our mark,” Jughead said, offering Archie the knife next. “Where’s Betty?”

“Here,” Betty said, swinging around the doorway, catching them all with a tangle of silly string. Veronica laughed, feeling even more grateful for her all black ensemble, and reached out a hand to reel Betty in close.

Archie passed the knife to Betty after scratching _A.A. _into the windowsill – simple and classic. Good and honest. Veronica tugged him in for a kiss, short and sweet, just because she loved him. She loved all of them. 

“Should I put an _E _or a _B_?” Betty asked, knife poised.

They all spoke together: “_B_.”

Jughead took the longest, took his time, carving out his place. Long enough that Veronica teased, “Recreating the _Mona Lisa_?”

“_The Scream_, actually,” he said without looking up, “I always was more of a Munch person.”

“Good,” Veronica said, resting her head on Betty’s shoulder. She didn’t really mind waiting. “The _Mona Lisa _is so underwhelming in person. Don’t waste your time.”

Veronica didn’t get a chance to look at what Jughead had written that night – and she wouldn’t get a chance on Monday, either. But she didn’t know that yet. None of them did.

For as much as had happened in Riverdale since Jason Blossom died, it never made the tragedies easier to predict. The shadows lurking around the edges of the town moved too slowly; it wasn’t until someone was lost to the darkness that anyone even noticed how far those shadows had spread, how cunningly it had snuck up on all of them. 

* * *

It was still a novelty, having Jellybean there with them.

Of all the things that would make it hard for Jughead to leave Riverdale during the week, she was the worst. It felt like he’d just gotten her back and he wasn’t ready to give up their messy Sunday morning routine: sleeping late, sugared cereal, and cartoons that they were both too old for.

“Speak for yourself,” she snarked when he said as much.

“Come on,” Jughead cajoled, “You’ll miss me.”

“No,” she said, “I won’t. It’ll be much easier to get ready for school without you or Betty getting in the way.”

“Hey, Betty’s bedroom is still here. She’ll be around.”

JB shrugged. “Probably not as much. Not without you.”

“I’m going to school in Centerville, not the moon,” he said with a laugh.

JB smirked. It was eerie how much she looked like Gladys when she did, and Jug made a note to ask Betty to come around maybe more than was necessary – to keep up with Jellybean, look after her. JB was a good kid, smart, but she hadn’t had the most typical of upbringings. Even if he was just going to Centerville, Jug knew better than most how it could start to feel like Riverdale was closing in around you. It would do her good, having someone like Betty to dote on her when Jughead wasn’t just down the hall. 

Archie, too – as good a surrogate brother as they made ‘em.

Someone knocked on the door, and Jughead hurried to touch his nose – but Jellybean was faster. Rules were rules, but Jug didn’t have to be happy about it. He levered himself off the couch with a put-upon sigh.

Standing on their front step was the stranger from Pop’s, wearing a plaid coat and a smile. Up close, her features were almost alien: oversized blue eyes, set just a little too far apart; bone-structure a little too sharp.

When they were younger, Jughead and Archie would stay up all night long, spending hours trying to scare each other with urban legends. Archie tended to stick to the time-trusted tales, the crowd-pleasers: home-invaders pretending to be a beloved pet, menacing computer messages, asylum escapees with hooks for hands.

But Jughead had learned early that the worst monsters would try to hide in plain sight – you just had to know how to look for them.

He would dive deep into abandoned internet forums (themselves a type of scary story, digital ghost towns, all those abandoned accounts. What had happened to the people behind them?). There, he’d find the stories that would keep him up at night: tales of people who were just a little _wrong_. Children whose limbs didn’t move quite right, a little too spidery. Strangers who were a little too slow to react, buffered a little too long. Blank eyes, empty smiles, flat voices.

That was what was wrong here, now. A girl who looked more like an approximation of a girl than an actual one.

A bone-deep dread began to grow behind his ribs.

“Hello,” she said. “My name is Freyja Rúnarsdóttir. I was hoping -“

“To talk to us about our Lord and Savior?” Jughead quipped.

Her expression didn’t change. “Well, I don’t know about you, but I’m my own savior.” 

The dread seeped through his chest, becoming a chill that turned his lungs to ice. 

“I was hoping,” she began again, ignoring Jughead’s silence, “to speak with Forsythe Pendleton Jones, if he’s available?” She had a pretty, lyrical accent to match her pretty face.

Jughead didn’t trust her for a second.

“Yes?” he asked. At the same time, he heard his father’s voice:

“Who’s asking?”

FP reached around Jughead to open the door further.

“Oh,” she said, not sounding very startled at all. Her gaze caught on FP like a fishhook – and then she flashed another smile. She had deep dimples. Belatedly, she looked back to Jughead, and then to FP again – and back to Jug. “Ehm ---- Junior?”

Jug turned to his father, eyebrows raised. FP was leveling Freyja with a stare made for war – the type that had dropped many a Serpent before. Freyja just waited patiently on the doorstep, hands tucked into the pockets of her ridiculous coat.

“Who’s asking,” FP repeated, not a question this time.

“Houdini,” Freyja finally answered. “He sends his regards.”

Wordlessly, FP reached for his jacket beside the door and shrugged into it.

“Dad -” Jughead started.

“Let’s take a walk,” FP said. He stepped onto the porch, forcing her bodily backward. Closed the door behind him without looking back. 

Jughead watched them go from the sitting room window: the proud, guarded set of his father’s shoulders, the girl’s easy grace. 

An eraser hit him square between the shoulder blades – perfect aim. “_Jughead_,” JB said, sounding like she’d said it many times already. “Who was that?”

“One of dad’s informants.” He didn’t know why he lied, but he’d gotten good at trusting his instincts since Jason Blossom was killed, and they were hissing loud: _badwrongwicked._ “Something must’ve happened. It seemed important.”

“Bullshit.”

“Hey,” Jughead said, shoving JB’s beanie forward until it slid over her eyes. “Watch your mouth, shrimp.”

~~

They didn’t speak until they reached the water.

Sweetwater River was swollen this time of year, the late summer humidity turning to rainstorms that made the water run wild and angry. They’re not far from Elm Street – down a few blocks, through a copse of trees, straight to the riverbank with its shifting clay and rocks slippery with moss.

There was a shortcut through the Midge Klump Memorial Garden, but FP hadn’t paid enough dues to walk there, not yet. Anyway ----- it only made him think about the kids from the Southside, the dead kids who would never get memorial gardens or vigils; they left behind unfixed bikes and broken homes, and that was supposed to be enough.

The girl – Freyja, she’d introduced herself – didn’t seem in a hurry to speak, didn’t even seem particularly inclined to look at him. She’d inched right up to the riverbank, close enough that he could see her coat darkening with the crashing mist, and was staring into the water like it was speaking to her in some ancient tongue.

“You’re difficult to track down,” Freyja said, voice so soft FP almost missed it.

“If you had to go to Houdini, you must not be too good at looking.” 

“He found me, actually.”

“Funny,” FP said, “I don’t remember Houdini being the sociable type.”

Then again – Houdini and FP had never gotten on too well. There were some arguments that even the Serpent Laws couldn’t solve, and one that started over a missing drug shipment was one of them. The last FP had heard, Houdini had taken up with some other Serpent ex-pats in Quebec; until today, he’d just figured that Houdini had gotten in over his head in Montreal, ended up drunk and dead in a snowbank.

He and Houdini had always been different sides of the same coin: Houdini a rich kid from the Northside looking to get his kicks on the wrong side of the tracks; FP a Southsider just searching for a way out. When Houdini had gone rogue, had taken the drugs and left FP with the debt and the devil coming to collect ---

It seemed fitting that FP had been the one who got to stay here, stuck in Riverdale, forced to watch everything fade to black around him.

“He heard I was asking questions about Clifford Blossom,” Freyja said, indifferent to or ignoring him. Maybe both.

“What kind of questions?”

She didn’t answer. He waited her out until he decided it didn’t matter.

“You’re about two years too late,” FP told her, more than a little mean. “Lotta people wanted Clifford Blossom dead.”

She did look at him, then, face strange ‘til it turned pretty, lips quirking into a smile. Dangerous as anything. The darkness condensed, under the maple trees, at her silence.

It took more than a pretty smile and prolonged silence to bring FP Jones to heel, but he did take notice: amateur hour was over.

“He’s dead,” FP repeated. “And the world is better for it. I’m sorry you came all this way, but you can just turn tail back to Montreal and tell Houdini that I -”

“That would be a magic trick, indeed,” Freyja said. At FP’s look: “He felt I owed him more than a _thank you_.”

FP moved closer to her, then closer still, until she took a step back. Her boots slid in the clay until she got her footing, perilously close to the water. Like this, he could see the icy blue of her eyes – they were damn cold eyes, but not empty. He knew empty eyes, had seen them many a time at the Whyte Wyrm, Serpents who had seen too much and grown bored with it. Their danger came from a boredom that pushed them into sadism, always searching for their next fix.

But he knew cold eyes, too, because he’d seen them in the mirror. He could barely remember the first weeks after Gladys and the baby had left. There were flashes of Jughead, shouldering his weight from the Wyrm – middle of the night phone calls, _your dad needs you, boy_, Jughead shuffling into the Wyrm with his beanie pulled low to gather his drunk of a dad.

That was before the anger set in, the indignation, the hurt. FP had always been the guy you could count on to end trouble in a hurry, but in those next few months, he became the guy that could start it. A well-placed sneer here, a pointed smirk there, a just-because slight given, just enough to ignite a fire.

“If you lay a finger on that girl…” FP began. Cheryl Blossom was a pest, was giving his son a lot of trouble and always had, but he’d be damned if he was going to let anything happen to her. Riverdale had buried enough of its children. He’d buried enough Serpents.

“A daughter shouldn’t bear the burden of her father’s sins,” Freyja said, lifting her chin to meet his eyes.

Their nearness prickled like a fight.

“And whose sins do you bear?” he asked.

* * *

  
Betty was the first one to suspect something was wrong.

It made sense – she’d tagged along with the Joneses to help get Jughead settled at school. He wasn’t taking much with him; he lived too close and would be coming home too often for it to make sense to haul his – admittedly meager, Jughead Jones had learned to live lean over the years, never accumulating more stuff than he could carry in one pack - belongings out of Riverdale. 

“You never know,” Betty had said, looking doubtfully at his handful of duffle bags. “Once you start making friends, maybe you’ll want to spend a weekend or two out in Centerville. And you’ll be so annoyed that you have to drive all the way back to Riverdale for your special going-out beanie.”

Jughead hadn’t even bothered to laugh, had just stared at her until _she _was the one laughing.

She tried to hold onto that laughter, later. As soon as FP had dropped her off at the Pembrooke Sunday evening, she hadn’t been able to shake the tightness in her chest. It wasn’t unusual – the panic attacks had been coming more frequently ever since Penelope. Ever since her dad. She’d spent so long fearing shadows that her body didn’t know how to exhale.

And with classes starting the next day… maybe it was the nostalgia, the realization that she was starting her _senior year _tomorrow, and her mother wouldn’t be there to see her off. But Veronica would be there, and Archie – he was spending the night at home with Mary. She was still in the transitional phases of rerouting both her personal and professional lives into Riverdale, but she’d wanted to be there for Archie to start senior year. He’d promised to come over for breakfast, and then –--

They’d go to school. Act like everything was normal.

Even if nothing was.

Case in point:

Across town, the students of Riverdale High woke up to voicemails and follow-up text messages: a prerecorded message usually reserved for heavy snow or water line breaks. _All classes at the high school have been cancelled_, the Riverdale superintendent said. _Classes will resume normally this _– and here, a robotic voice took over, saying pleasantly - _Wednesday, September third._

No explanation.

“Huh,” Veronica said, folding the paper down. It was a slim edition; of all of her family’s assets, _The_ _Lodge Ledger_ interested her the least. Which was saying something, since Hiram had gone through a period where he accumulated a few waste management companies.

They, at least, had an air of morbidity around them that Veronica found, despite herself, intriguing.

She’d asked Betty if she’d be interested in helping out at _The Ledger_, holding things down until Alice was found or came back or --– anyway, Betty was a good writer. Would she want to step up and edit or write or manage?

“Sorry, V,” Betty had said – and she had actually _looked _sorry. Veronica wasn’t sure she’d ever get used to having a friend as genuine and sincere as Betty. Veronica came from a world of teens with their faces closed to the world and their hearts closed to everything. Lightyears from someone as warm and open as Betty. “I don’t think I can right now. Not with…”

Veronica wouldn’t even let her go down that path. “Enough said. And don’t worry about it for one second. _The Ledger _will keep, and _when _your mom gets back, I’d be thrilled if she’d return as editor in chief.”

But in the here and now, _The Ledger _was running on a skeleton crew and it was beginning to show.

“I wonder what happened.”

Betty shrugged, innocent. Too innocent. Veronica had already removed her reading glasses and was planning what shoes to wear when Betty said, casual, “Want to go find out?”

~~

The main road to the school had been cordoned off with sawhorses and tape, fluorescent against the grey day. For classes having been cancelled, the school was bustling with activity. Officers moved to-and-fro in a sort of controlled chaos – it looks like it was a full-scale operation, all hands-on deck. Photographers wielding cameras with massive zoom lenses snapped pictures of the parking lot, the doorway, the steps.

No time to waste. Certainly not enough for any of the officers to notice two girls slipping through the barriers. Distantly, Betty wondered where the reporters from _The Ledger _were. Except for a few earlier risers on their morning jog, there weren’t too many onlookers. No wonder the paper was struggling.

If_ The Register _was still there, Betty knew that her mother would be raising hell and getting answers.

“Betty, look. Isn’t that -?”

Betty pulled Veronica behind one of the department issued SUVs. Through the tinted glass of its rear windows, she watched the familiar ghoulish, stooping figure of Dr. Curdle Jr. walk out of the school. He was deep in conversation with FP Jones.

There was a body, then. A victim.

And a source of information. They would have to stop at the bank on their way back to the Pembrooke.

“Okay,” Betty said. “Let’s -”

They turned and nearly ran straight into a deputy. He looked barely older than they were and seemed just as startled at seeing them as they were at seeing him.

“What are you doing here?” he asked, a beat too late for Betty to take him seriously.

“What’s going on?” Betty asked, quick.

“You can’t be here.”

“Is someone hurt?”

“You need to leave.”

“Do _you _even know what’s going on?” Betty asked, crossing her arms across her chest and lifting her chin. “Or is that above your pay grade? What _is _it that you’re doing? Definitely not controlling the scene, anyone could just -”

“Okay, that’s enough,” the kid said, grabbing Betty by the arm.

“Hey, hands off, tiger,” Veronica said, knocking his hand away. “Touch her again and I’ll have your badge so fast your head will spin.”

The deputy looked startled, unsure of what to do when faced with Veronica Lodge. Well, it wasn’t completely his fault – better men than he had tried.

“Betty!”

Saved by the boss. FP didn’t look any happier to see her there, but Betty could handle him. Knew what to expect, at least.

“And Veronica,” he said, catching sight of her. “Why am I not surprised?”

“Good morning, Sheriff Jones,” Veronica said. Flashed the famous Lodge smile.

It didn’t seem to work on him. More likely, it only made him more annoyed. FP knew a snake when he saw one. 

“Do either of you know the definition of _crime scene tampering_?”

“Do _you_?” Veronica asked, sweet.

FP smirked the famous Jones smirk.

“Plute,” he barked, not bothering to look at the young deputy. The kid – Plute, apparently – snapped to attention anyway, like he was preparing to answer a question in math class. “Make yourself busy. You two, come with me.”

“I saw Dr. Curdle,” Betty said as FP led them away from the school. “Someone – they found a body, didn’t they?”

FP didn’t answer, and Betty didn’t huff, but it was a near thing. He was just being stubborn at this point. What was the purpose of the medical examiner being at a scene if there wasn’t a body to examine?

“What went down on Friday?” he asked.

“Nothing,” Betty said. “We stole Jax the Jaguar and then came back here and – I don’t know – tossed confetti and silly string around.”

“Tell me about the mascot. Where did you get it?”

“Someone was killed over a _mascot_?” Veronica asked.

His question made Betty wonder the same thing – but it didn’t make sense. Kidnapping mascots was just a tradition. One school took the costume, the other had until the Homecoming game to try to get it back. If they didn’t retrieve it by then, it was said to be bad luck for the game. But that was _it_.

“I’m not saying that,” FP said, making it clear that he wasn’t _not _saying that, either. It was classic doublespeak, and Betty’s mind was racing, trying to unravel FP’s thoughts before he could change course on them. Trying to figure out what he wanted to know before he realized the clues he was leaving.

But even with all the time that they’d been spending time together, the dinners that they were both careful not to call _family dinners _and their slightly fumbling breakfasts shared at the Coopers’ abandoned table, FP was still difficult to read.

“But we’re going to send a team over to Glendale and I want to know where to expect your fingerprints.”

“Only the Bulldogs actually went inside,” Betty said. “It was in the equipment room. You know, we’d be more helpful if we knew who you were looking for, or -”

FP looked at her, serious. “We haven’t even informed the family yet, Betty.”

Betty flinched. It felt like someone had run an ice cube down her spine – a dead body in the abstract was much different than a dead classmate, a dead son or daughter. Someone Betty had known, or even someone she hadn’t. It was the potential and the curiosity that spurred her on; for too long now, she’d been waiting for the next show to drop – and then the one after that, and after that, and after that.

All the way up to Penelope Blossom shooting Hal mere feet from where Betty stood.

Slowing down wasn’t an option. Not yet.

Maybe not ever.


	2. the darkness hummed

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> please note that this chapter deals with the description of character death and graphic violence. 
> 
> thank you so much for reading!

Like particularly well-bred bloodhounds, the students of Hampden-Pennell Preparatory Academy sniffed Jughead out quick.

The admissions officer he’d met with earlier in the summer had been polite, if distant, short and noncommittal. They’d asked Jughead to summarize the last book he’d read and describe what leadership skills he could offer Hampden-Pennell Prep. Jughead had dutifully recited the plot of _The Secret History _and tried to make it sound like he, too, had an interest in the Classics. Not that he had anything against them, exactly – but Jughead had seen enough tragedy for one lifetime.

He’d lightly smudged the truth to position himself as editor of _The Blue and Gold_, sending a text to Betty afterwards to explain and say, _sorry, but i don’t think ‘i was a teenage gangbanger’ is going to earn me any points with my classmates. _

_you never know, _Betty wrote back. _it shows you’re a self-starter who overcomes adversity. _

_thanks betty, but rags-to-riches isn’t a story anyone wants to hear until it’s over._

There was a copy of the article Jughead had written for _The Ledger _on the admission officer’s desk, spilling all the dark details of the Gargoyles and Penelope Blossom and fizzle rocks. As far as they knew, he was an intrepid – if overenthusiastic – journalist, a kid with the ability to spin a turn of phrase. _That _was the kid that they wanted to take pity on, not the one that had gotten caught up in the frenzy and burnt down his own trailer.

The line between the two was tightrope-narrow, and when the counselor called him ‘Forsythe,’ Jughead didn’t correct them.

The acceptance letter, when it came with its honest to God wax seal and scholarship offer, might as well have read:

_We suggest you look over the following materials very carefully. The zip code, middle school, and surname listed on your application suggest that you won’t fit in and we want your adjustment to life at the Academy to be as seamless as possible. Enclosed you will find everything you need to make your time at Hampden-Pennell unforgettable and your lower-class upbringing unnoticeable. _

But the Committee on Admissions was no match for eighteen-year-olds with the world at their fingertips and a taste for blood. Classes would start in the morning, but the gauntlet was starting now, at –

Well, Jughead didn’t know what time it was, for sure. Whoever had broken into his room had brought a burlap sack with them, and it was scratching at his jaw where it had been cinched just-too-tight around his neck. He’d been forced from his bed and into the hallway – from there, he’d lost track, hadn’t spent enough time at the school to have his bearings. There had been steps and doors and then the bone-deep chill of the night, gravel and then the snap of twigs under his bare feet.

Hampden-Pennell was surrounded by acres and acres of forest. It had been carved out in the 1930s as a place for the country’s best and brightest – or, at the very least, richest - to escape the dirt and desperation of the Great Depression. Here, students could learn from the greats, could play tennis and horseback ride, could live and party and learn as if the Roaring Twenties roared on.

Today it remained as isolated as ever, tricky to find on any map. It was as if it was built of illusions, and only once you had proved yourself worthy would it appear, shimmering, amongst the trees.

Until then, those trees would stand sentinel. Their branches reached and snagged and tore at Jughead’s bare chest, his shoulders and arms. His captors never slowed when he stumbled, foot caught under a root. They just yanked him back to his feet and shoved him onward, onward, _onward_.

For once, Jughead kept his mouth shut. All of his attention was on staying upright, not that it did him much good. He could feel the blood on his knees, was sure there was more – on his feet, certainly, where they caught on jagged rocks and sharp branches. If he’d had the breath to spare, he might have laughed: at least the police dogs would have an easy path to follow. His body wouldn’t lay out too long – though, in a wilderness like this, it didn’t need to.

The animals would find him quick.

A sudden thought, unbidden: _this is going to kill my dad_.

He must have tensed, his entire body rejecting the very idea of his dad having to identify his son’s picked-over body. One of his captors gripped the back of his neck, hard, and shoved him along. He stumbled forward, off-balance, and tried to relax. Tried to settle in for the walk: it would have been suicide to try to escape now, to fight when he was blind and vulnerable.

The silence was the eeriest part; every snapping twig and breath was amplified, the burlap hood an echo chamber for Jughead’s too-quick breaths and racing thoughts. He tried to listen to what was behind the sounds: a rustle of his tormentors’ clothing, a whisper between conspirators. But there was nothing. Whatever this was – it had been planned carefully and was being performed to perfection. These were not amateurs; they were not just the mean-spirited classmates that Jughead had expected.

Beneath him, the ground evened out, and the air grew warm. A second later, he could pick out the crackling of a fire from behind his breathing, from beneath his panicked thoughts, the half-formed plans that would never work – but his mind was stuck on his father, on JB, and he couldn’t get past it. What would the investigating police tell them? That he hadn’t fought? That he hadn’t even tried?

But he hesitated a beat too long. Firm hands on his shoulders shoved him down to his knees. The ground was soft with rain, but the drop was sudden enough that his teeth snapped together, hard.

“Forsythe Pendleton Jones III,” someone near to him said, and ripped the hood from his head.

Jughead blinked hard. He’d been right about the fire, but wrong about the clearing. Instead, the flames leapt dangerously close to the canopy of leaves. It took him a second to notice the figures, disguised as they were among the trees, hard as it was to see past the fire – it was almost fluorescent in the darkness.

But as his eyes adjusted, they appeared. It was like looking at one of those Magic Eye puzzles – the longer he looked, the more that appeared, emerging out from the trees. They were shrouded in dark cloaks with hideous hooked beaks that reached, talon-like, in from the darkness. From under the hoods, the fire reflected in wide, unseeing eyes.

Slowly, Jughead turned his head to the left, and then to the right. More talons, more glints of the fire. He felt like he was in a funhouse where the mirrors were playing tricks on him, multiplying the danger. Leaving him paranoid and disoriented and alone at the center of it all.

His heart pounded in his chest. Why wouldn’t they move? Or speak? Jughead ran the numbers, the possibilities. These were students, probably; rich kids, bored and ignored, who had found a new toy to play with. But Jughead knew rich kids – or knew one, at least:

“When in doubt,” Veronica had said to him, grimly serious over milkshakes and a shared basket of French fries, “Just ask yourself – WWVLD? What Would Veronica Lodge Do?”

So Jughead squared his shoulders and lifted his chin. Smirked, just a little. “Really? Plague doctors? Was Party Village all sold out of pig masks?”

Silence, except for the hungry crackling of the fire.

And then – some invisible signal must have been given. Someone kicked him in the back, hard; Jug grunted and doubled forward, hands skittering through the forest detritus to catch himself. Sprawled out like that, he was even closer to the fire, the flames wavering hot just in front of his face, shadows dancing.

There was a rustling of feathers, and out of the darkness, one of the doctors stepped forward. Their mask was embellished with gold that flickered blood red in the firelight; their cloak made up of layers of glossy black feathers, overlapping like scales. 

“We are the Gravediggers,” they said. Or someone did – the masks hid their mouths, left their words muffled and distorted. It could have come from any one of them, but Jughead couldn’t take his eyes off of the one that had stepped forward. “We are made of dead flowers,”

From somewhere else in the circle: “Fresh soil,”

Again, someone else: “And dried blood.”

The voices came faster, losing their rhythm, jumping around the circle at random. Jughead felt like he was going insane, like the voices had been borne inside his head; he couldn’t think. It sounded like there were more voices than there were figures, felt like the trees were leaning in to hear the soft chants – those _were _trees, right? Or was it more of them, more figures draped in feathers, more hooked beaks, more mirrored eyes?

It couldn’t possibly be more. Right?

He stopped moving his head, feeling suddenly nauseated. Stared ahead at the doctor whose hooked nose appeared to be _dripping _blood now.

“We will dig your grave.”

“Can you keep a secret?”

“We will cut your tongue out -”

“- to stop you from speaking words that may betray you.”

“We will fill your ears with earth - ”

“ - to keep you from hearing sounds that will confuse you.”

Jughead tasted copper. Touched his fingers to his mouth and saw them come away bloody, felt it on his chin. He raised a shaking hand to rub at his mouth, felt the sting of the cut in his bottom lip.

Around him, the darkness rippled and pulsed.

* * *

The news broke early the next day, the leading story, first thing after the RIVW jingle:

Local teen Moose Mason found dead under suspicious circumstances.

And just like that, her father’s design was complete.

Betty heard her father’s voice, clear as day: _checkmate_. The last piece had been captured. 

She did not shatter - nor did her coffee cup. That, she set carefully on the coffee table, careful not to spill a drop on the Lodges’ pristine carpet. She folded her hands in her lap. She watched the B-roll footage of the high school; a picture of Moose, last year’s yearbook photo, took up half of the screen. She did not cry.

_Dead_, Betty thought, and couldn’t think anything else. _Moose is dead_. Tried to count to ten and found that she couldn’t get past _local teen Moose Mason found dead under suspicious circumstances._

“I need to call Kevin,” she said to Hermione Lodge’s china. Just as soon as her hands stopped shaking enough that she could work her phone; it kept slipping through her fingers, the jelly case slick with her shock.

They hadn’t spoken in a while. At some point, it had seemed like Betty was only making things worse.

On her way out, that last time, Tom had called her into his study. It looked only marginally different than it had when he’d been sheriff: there was still a collage of pictures on the wall, leftovers from the Black Hood. Kevin had once told her that his father had never stopped working on the case, not even after being replaced as sheriff, but seeing the evidence of it – it felt like nothing had changed. Like her dad was still out there, planning his next move.

“Don’t get me wrong, Betty,” Tom said. “Kevin is lucky to have a friend like you. I know what you did, going in there. I know you tried to get him out, to shut the whole thing down. And who knows,” Tom shrugged, but there was something stiff about it, “If not for you, I might have lost my son, too. Maybe you gave him just enough doubt that he managed to stay. But right now…”

He looked uncomfortable, and Betty waited for only a few seconds before swooping in. “I get it, Mr. Keller. He needs time away from me. To clear his head.” 

Tom cleared his throat, looking grateful. “You’re always welcome here, Betty. If there’s anything we can do until your mom gets back – I’m sure they’ll find her, of course. Got the whole FBI looking for her, it seems like. But if there’s anything we can do, don’t hesitate to ask.” Betty tried to smile, tried not to point out that in his last breath, he’d bemoaned the possibility of losing his son to the Farm. Had made it sound so final.

But she got it. She understood the tightrope of being grateful that tragedy had touched someone else’s family. Charles, on the other hand…

“Absolutely not. Betty, Kevin Keller is our best source of information on The Farm’s whereabouts. Do you want to see your mother again? Your sister? Do you want your niece and nephew to grow up with their real mother instead of with Cheryl Blossom? If so, you’d better toughen up –”

“Our mother,” Betty said.

Charles blinked. He obviously wasn’t used to being interrupted.

“She’s _our_ mother. Right, Charles?”

“Right,” he said. There was still an angry red flush on his cheeks, spreading down his neck, into the neat collar of his dress shirt. But he sounded more controlled now. He’d forgotten himself – who he was dealing with. “You’re right. And Kevin Keller is our best chance at bringing her home. He can take a little questioning from a concerned friend.”

But Betty had held firm, giving Kevin time and space to mourn. Had held Charles at bay with little white lies – that Tom Keller wouldn’t let his son out of his sight, that Kevin had started flying out to visit Josie on tour over the weekends.

The truth was, she wasn’t sure what Kevin had been doing since then. Archie mentioned that he’d seen Ethel’s bike outside of the Kellers’ place a few times, and that – if it didn’t ease Betty’s worries at all, it at least made sense. They had a lot more in common now than they had before; and Ethel was a sweet girl. Every mistake she’d made had been because she had wanted attention, friendship. If she could find it with Kevin, maybe they could be good for each other.

Betty hesitated with Kevin’s contact card pulled up. Kevin had turned over his cellphone to Edgar Evernever, and Betty wasn’t sure if he’d gotten a new one yet. If he had, she certainly hadn’t been given the number. The Kellers still had a house phone – Kevin had tried to get his dad to get rid of it, urging Sheriff Keller to _join the twenty-first century_, but Tom had pointed out that their neighbors, many of whom were aging, had that number. It wouldn’t do for the town’s sheriff to be unreachable at home.

So the house phone had stayed, and Betty still knew the number by heart. She remembered dialing it endlessly in grade school, every day during the summer, always polite, _Hi, Sheriff Keller, is Kevin available? _Sharing pleasantries with him while waiting for Kevin to pick up on an extension.

But Betty couldn’t risk being intercepted by Tom Keller today. The news would have him on high alert. Her best chance would be a surprise attack.

She just had one stop to make, first.

~~

It was a brisk day; it felt like summer had collapsed, all at once, winter nipping at their heels already, ready to overtake them if they stumbled even a little bit. As if whatever was haunting Riverdale could be so easily avoided – just look at Moose. Escaped death, escaped _Riverdale_. And in the end, even that hadn’t been enough to outrun death.

Betty pulled her jacket tighter around her shoulders, tucked her hands in the pockets. The Pembrooke was in Old Riverdale, tucked far away from things as unsavory as the town morgue. The view from Veronica’s bedroom was the Old Town Green – it wasn’t Central Park, but it was nothing to scoff at, either. The Riverdale Historical Society worked hard to keep it looking pristine, but Betty cut across the finely manicured grass, inhaling the wet smell of earth and enjoying the crunch of dead leaves before they’d be raked away. She imagined they’d be gone by noon.

It had been a minute since she’d been on her own in an investigation. Sure, she’d taken the reins after Jughead had gotten too caught up in G&G to realize what was right in front of them – her stomach still lurched at the thought of an organ harvesting facility, her heart still dropped when she thought of the scar cutting across Kevin’s abdomen – but he had still been there, ready to brainstorm.

Now, it was just her. But it had been a long time, too, since Betty Cooper had been ‘just’ anything. _Just _Polly Cooper’s little sister. _Just _the girl next door. _Just _another girl in a sweater and ponytail. What was she now? _Just _the daughter of a serial killer? _Just _the person who had brought him down, the one who had decoded the messages and followed the clues? Was she _just _the girl who had, at the end of it all, refused to hurt him?

Penelope Blossom had called her a coward. Betty wasn’t so sure.

Something in her was settling. The static was receding, Riverdale coming into sharp focus. 

Betty checked the time, hoped she could catch Jughead during his free period. She chewed on a cuticle while she let the phone ring – and ring, and ring, until she was directed to voicemail.

“Jug,” she said, “I don’t know if you’ve heard, but something happened – Moose is dead. They found his body in the school the day after Senior Night… Have you heard anything more from your dad? I’m going to see Dr. Curdle, Jr. now to try to find out what happened. How it happened, I mean. Call me when you get a chance.” She almost hung up. Remembered at the last minute: “I hope you’re having a good day! Can’t wait to hear about Hampden-Pennell day two. Okay. I love you. Bye.”

No, it wasn’t the same at all. But it would have to do.

Despite the fact that it was just past seven in the morning, it was always just past midnight at the coroner’s. Betty knocked on the door to Dr. Curdle, Jr.’s office; it was right beneath one of the few lights that worked, but she still jumped out of her skin when she heard, from behind her: “Miss Cooper. I was wondering when I would see you again.”

He was right behind her when she turned, and Betty knew she was _this _close to having a heart attack. Was that job security, for medical examiners? She took a few steps back, twisting the strap of her satchel in her hand. “Yeah. Sheriff Jones asked me to wait until he could inform the family. Seemed like a fair ask. But – here.” She fumbled an envelope from her bag. “I want to know what happened to Moose.”

Dr. Curdle nodded, slow and solemn. He did everything slowly and solemnly, even counting money. Was that something they taught in mortuary school? Once satisfied, he reached around Betty to push the door to his office open. There was a smell of something chemical and abrasive; like the smell of a hospital but mixed with rot. A patient’s room filled with dead flowers and deflated balloons. _Get Well Soon _and _Best Wishes _gone flat.

It smelled like tragedy, and Betty couldn’t tell if it was coming from the doctor or his office. Maybe both.

“After you,” he said. Betty didn’t relish the idea of turning her back on Dr. Curdle, Jr., but she inched past him into the narrow space that he’d carved out for his office. She dropped her bag into one chair, took the other for herself, waited as patiently as possible for Dr. Curdle, Jr. to fold his tall frame into the desk chair. “Moose Mason. A fine young man.”

Betty stayed very still. Controlled her breathing, let her lungs burn with that chemical smell. It was heady enough that she could taste it, and her mouth felt thick with decay. Moose _had_ been a fine young man --- and he could have been a great one.

She had not known Moose well, but what she’d known she’d liked. He’d always been one of the kinder Bulldogs, had risked his life to keep Midge safe, had shown up for Kevin when it counted. No one had begrudged him leaving Riverdale, Kevin least of all. It just didn’t seem fair, wasn’t the right order of things. Moose was supposed to go on being his charming self and come back to Riverdale if only for one night. If only to take Kevin Keller to prom. Not end up dead before graduation.

“Official cause of death is asphyxiation. Mr. Mason was found gagged inside of a mascot costume.”

“Jax,” Betty said. It seemed important to lay out all of the facts.

“Indeed. Jax the Jaguar,” he read from the file. The rest, he knew by heart. “The suit itself had been nailed to the walls, preventing movement. Eventually the high levels of carbon dioxide that Mr. Mason was exhaling led to a displacement of oxygen within the costume. He would have experienced – well. There was vomit found in his esophagus, and signs that he struggled. Both would have provided detrimental to his situation, vis-à-vis available oxygen content. In conclusion…” He folded his hands on the desk. “it would not be my choice of ways to go.”

Betty sat back in the chair, trying to wrap her mind around the fact that someone had left Moose to die, trapped, alone, and aware – and failed. And she was Betty Cooper. She had stared down darkness many times before; so she fell back on it. She had survived worse than this. Curled her fingernails into the curved oak arms of her chair, forced her gaze back to Dr. Curdle. “What was he gagged with?”

It might have been a trick of the flickering light, but she could have sworn she saw Dr. Curdle, Jr. smile. It was like looking at a skull, the flesh melted away, teeth bared in a grimace. “Good question, Miss Cooper.” He opened the folder again and passed Betty a photograph across the desk.

She blinked; wasn’t sure if she was looking at the photo the right-side-up. “Chestnuts?”

Dr. Curdle nodded. Slow. Grave. “His mouth was full of them.”

Not a copycat, then. Not someone finishing the Black Hood’s chores – Hal had never been shy about his murders, had never wanted the person to suffer in silence. It wasn’t immediately clear to Betty whether that was a good or a bad thing; she wasn’t sure if she wanted to be Hal’s only legacy. “Was there anything else found with the body?”

Oh, how easily she slipped into Dr. Curdle’s lingo. How quickly she was able to turn Moose from a boy to a piece of the puzzle. If only Charles could see her now – _weak stomach_, he’d said. _Do you want to see your mother again, or not?_ Betty had willingly walked into one of the lesser levels of Hell for her mother. For her sister, for her friends.

Something told her that she hadn’t escaped yet. She was still wandering those paths, descending ever deeper. She wasn’t sure what she would find in the center; there were many devils, Betty Cooper had learned, each with a different, unpredictable face.

Charles would learn that there was very little weak about her.

* * *

Jughead awoke to sunlight glinting through a canopy of leaves and directly into his eyes. He grumbled to himself and attempted to bury his face deeper into the dirt; tried to ignore the sound of running water that seemed to echo between the leaves.

Jughead Jones had three realizations all at once, if a little belatedly. Firstly, while he’d only had a few nights’ sleep in his dorm room, he was certain he couldn’t hear water from there. Secondly, the pillows he’d brought to Hampden-Pennell from home, while not of the highest quality, were far more comfortable than the ground. They were comfortably, comfortingly lumpy and certainly didn’t leave dirt on his lips or the imprint of leaves on his cheek. Thirdly, he could feel a rock digging somewhat painfully into the side of his chest.

He stood up – woke up – at lightning speed, tangling himself in his own limbs. Startled something into launching itself back into the bushes – a rabbit, maybe a deer. It had disappeared too quickly for him to get a good look at it, but the branches swayed in its wake. He looked around in surprise at the slice of forest he’d been dropped in – even with how dark it had been last night, he knew it wasn’t the clearing from the night before. It was too dense, narrow as a deer path. Even if he’d hallucinated half of the people that had been there last night, there’s no way the corporeal audience could have fit here. Besides, there was no sign of a fire; no sign of anything, really.

If it wasn’t for having, y’know, woken up in the forest, Jughead might have believed that it had all been some weird fever dream inspired by the gothic architecture and Victorian attitudes of his new school. As it was, there were several small cuts on his chest and arms, and tender places where he knew bruises would form. There was dirt under his fingernails. Gingerly, he picked at the flannel of his joggers where they were stuck in the dried blood at his knees.

“A secret fucking society,” Jughead said aloud to whatever was hiding amongst the trees. “_Classic_.” 

Splashing water on his face helped Jughead feel a little more alive. He scrubbed hard at his skin, washing away the blood and grime – and as he settled back into his body, the gaps in his memory dropped like anvils in his stomach. Most of it was easy to figure out: he’d been tapped – or maybe it was the opposite. Maybe this was a warning shot. _You’re not one of us, and you never will be_.

Fine, then. He hadn’t come to Hampden-Pennell expecting to make friends. They had probably known each other since childhood; they were hardly going to wait for their senior year to break ranks and welcome in the new kid. Anyway, Jughead’s friend roster was full, and he didn’t have anyone to put on injured reserve. He hadn’t upended his life and given up spending senior year with his own friends for swapping secrets with the kids down the hall - he wanted the experience of writing for the Hampden-Pennell faculty, wanted the letters of recommendations, the college admission councilors with the 97% success rate.

“Success of what?” Jug had asked during his interview, toeing the line between inadvisably sarcastic and downright insubordinate. 

If the admissions councilor had been offended, if they’d even picked up on his derision, they hid it well. “Excellence, Mr. Jones.”

Sincerity was kryptonite to sarcasm, so Jughead had sat back in his chair, waited for the next question. Resisted the urge to ask about the other 3% - what became of them? Were they saddled with being _average_? Or were they the ones who had gone mad? He answered another question. Knocked that one out of the park, and then the next one, and then the next, and then –

And then, he’d found himself here, hopelessly lost in the woods.

Archie and Jughead hadn’t lasted long in Scouts – Jughead had had issues with authority even at age seven, and Archie had had Jughead’s back, no matter what, even then. When Fred Andrews – _always, always _Mr. Andrews, FP was usually too drunk, even at two in the afternoon, and when he wasn’t, Jughead had never wanted him to show up. Had never wanted to see him grouped with the other parents, afraid of their judgement and afraid of his own, too - had arrived to pick them up from what would end up being their last meeting, Jughead had a black-eye and Archie a split lip.

Jughead hadn’t missed it too much – he’d still had Archie, and then, when he and Archie drifted apart, he’d had his novel. And then he had Archie again, and Betty, and Veronica, and even FP. Fred was gone, though, and Jughead didn’t know how that was fair. How FP had had survived with all of his vices, and Fred Andrews, who was worth the whole damn town of Riverdale, had ended up dead.

Fred, who factored into most of Jughead’s childhood memories and all of the good ones. Fred, who had welcomed Jughead into his home time and time again. Fred, who had sent him and Archie off on a camping trip when they were nine, telling them _if you get lost, stay wherever you are. It’ll make it easier for me to find you. _

With Fred buried six feet down, it felt absolutely certain that there was no one looking for Jughead Jones.

He started to walk, forcing himself to move quickly; the pain in his feet would be there regardless, so he might as well try to cover as much distance as possible. 

Staying close to the water seemed to be a safe bet; people had always set up shop close to the water, and when he tried to visualize the map of the Hampden-Pennell campus, he knew it was bordered on one side by the river. Or _a _river – he hoped it was this one; couldn’t imagine that his classmates had dragged his unconscious body too far.

He wished he knew what time it was; gave his pockets just a cursory pat-down – there was very little chance he’d been left with a cellphone, his or otherwise, but maybe they’d given him a compass. Anything. Nothing. He squinted up at the sun, but the closest he could guess was that it was not yet noon. Or it had passed noon - he’d inherited many skills of varying legality from FP and Gladys, but none of them involved using the sun to tell the time. 

* * *

In fact, if anyone in Riverdale was going to know how to use the sun to tell time, it was Cheryl Blossom, and at that moment, she was very, very far from Jughead.

While Penelope had always been interested in plants, Cheryl had cultivated a vast knowledge of the more arcane arts: classical and archaic Latin, tarot cards, how to mix patterns without ending up looking like the discount bin at a thrift store.

She and Jason had spent countless days in the gardens of Thornhill – he had never been allowed to join the River Scouts, so he made do with the survival guides and explorers’ journals he found in the family’s library. Jason would lead them on grand adventures through the wilds of Thornhill, traversing the hunting grounds and pretending that every mark in the ground was a pawprint leading them to some magnificent new beast. Cheryl would play the princess who needed saving, or, more often, the princess who saved herself – she’d been handy with a bow and arrow even then.

“Have you heard the news, JJ?” she asked as she entered the gallery where Jason had made his home since returning. She’d begged him to come to the main house, to reclaim his old Thistle House bedroom, but he’d refused. Too much had happened since then; he wanted to start fresh. Cheryl wished she didn’t have to put a coat or her shoes whenever she wanted to visit her own brother, but it was a small price to pay to have him back where he belonged. Back with her. “Your old school chum, Moose – he’s met a premature end.”

Jason was quiet. Still absorbing the news – poor thing didn’t know how to react. Cheryl reached out to pat his hand, kind and understanding. It had been so _sudden_, and he’d been away for so long. He didn’t have the practice in saying goodbye that Cheryl did.

“It’s so gruesome. He was found murdered in our school! If I died in that den of degenerates and dunces – well, I’d just have to kill myself!” She laughed and settled back onto the settee. Slid her shoes off and wiggled her toes – nails painted NARS’ Hunger – in the carpet, feeling girlish and at home. “I don’t know how they can expect us to have class there. That whole quarantine ordeal was _truly_ dreadful, but maybe they were on to something. Riverdale High is diseased. It’s completely uninhabitable!”

Cheryl shifted closer to Jason, until she could rest her head on his shoulder. She’d almost forgotten how broad his shoulders were – how it seemed that they’d been made to comfort weepy damsels. How they’d been made to carry all of the things that Cheryl couldn’t.

“I wish I could stay home with you, JJ.” Better yet – “I wish we could just run away. Go somewhere else, start over. You, me, the twins. Be a _real _family, like what we deserved.” She waved a hand at the idea of Polly joining them. “Absolutely not! That harlot endangered and abandoned her own children. She joined a _cult_, Jason. We don’t need her. We’re all better off without her, especially Dag and Juni.

“Anyway, there hasn’t been any word of any of those Farmie Freaks.” Thank God – and good riddance. They might have helped Jason get back to her, but they’d almost taken Toni away. But she had them both now, and the twins were safe. That was all she needed. Edgar Evernever could stuff his _ascension _right up his ass… cension. “We couldn’t find her if we wanted to.” She shook her head, nuzzled right up under Jason’s jaw, where she liked it the best. Where she felt safest.

Fired off a few tweets reminding everyone of the party she was throwing at the end of the week and that, _yes_, it was still on even if Moose was dead, and scrolled through her camera roll. Paused at the pictures she’d taken the other day of Dag and Juni with Jason. Cheryl had had trouble getting the self-timer on her phone to work, but there were a few there, at the end, of the four of them together. Fair skinned, redheaded, smiling. They were perfect. 

How lucky her darling niece and nephew were to be twins. It felt like destiny, like a second chance at the life she and Jason could have had. Cheryl would never let them be separated again.

There was nothing worse than a twin left alone in the world.

* * *

There were several text messages waiting for Betty when she left the morgue. Reception wasn’t good there – it gave a new meaning to the term _dead zone_. They were from Veronica, mostly, wondering where she’d gone so early. Several from Archie, too, probably at Veronica’s behest. Still nothing from Jughead; Betty tried him again as she made her way towards the Keller-McCoy residence.

Nothing. The same generic voicemail – Jughead had never even provided his name. It was robotic all the way through: _the number you have dialed is unavailable. Please leave your message at the tone, or hang up and try again_. A reminder: Jughead Jones could not be reached unless he wanted to be reached, and he usually didn’t. Except for Betty. From day one, Jughead had been so attuned to her needs, her wants. It had been almost dizzying, how quickly he’d come to understand her.

But then again, Betty had been an altogether softer girl then. More open. Certainly more trusting. She wondered what she and Jughead would think of each other if they met as the people they were now – re-met, she reminded herself; sometimes she forgot that she, Jughead, and Archie had been an _ArchieJugheadBetty_ before. That they’d fallen apart before. She hated the thought that it had happened, and hated the idea that it could happen again. No, she decided. This new Betty Cooper, or maybe the Betty Cooper that she’d always been, under the thin pastel veneer, didn’t let go of anything without leaving claw marks.

She dialed Jughead again. Hung up before his voicemail picked up, and sent a text instead: _hope you’re having a great day! xo_

And then she shoved her phone into her pocket, ducked her head against the wind. The sun had burnt off that morning’s clouds, but it was still brisk, if not downright chilly – the sun didn’t count for much in Riverdale, where the shadows reached so far, even in the middle of the day.

~~

At first glance, the Keller-McCoy place seemed deserted. There weren’t any cars in the driveway, which was only a little surprising – even with everything that had happened, even with a (step-)son who was still recovering from serious trauma, Sierra and Tom both had jobs. 

Still, Betty didn’t want to risk it. She went straight for the side of the house; a series of windows were staggered up the stairwell. Inside, the windows were broken up by a series of family portraits. Betty hadn’t been in the Kellers’ home since the McCoys had moved in, but she guessed that they’d been taken down, or replaced, or – something. It was one more thing that Betty no longer knew about Kevin’s life, when once she’d known which of his stairs creaked the loudest.

On the outside of the house, the pattern of sills made it so, if she watched her footing and ignored the blunt scrape of the bricks against her nails, she could shuffle along the windowsills like a series of steps. She was taller now, with longer legs and stronger arms, but it seemed even more impossible now than when she and Kevin had been kids, sneaking out to buy candy at the twenty-four-hour convenience mart. They’d dare each other to be the one to take their loot up to the creepy graveyard-shift cashier.

Plus, she hadn’t done this in a long time, and never in this direction. She’d always been welcome at the Keller house before, and the few times she and Kevin had snuck out during sleepovers, that had always been coming _down_. When they’d get back, invariably, Tom would be sitting on the front porch.

“You kids must think I’m the worst sheriff in the state, huh?” he’d ask, and she and Kevin would demure. Try to look suitably caught. “Honest to God. You’re lucky I don’t stick you in a holding cell for the night.” But it was all for show. They would let him usher them in through the front door and send them up the stairs to Kevin’s room. Would do them the favor of ignoring the way they were biting their lips to try to hide their giggles.

It never stopped them from trying again the next weekend, though.

Betty swung herself up into the last window; stood on tiptoes to pull herself up to Kevin’s – thank God for Cheryl’s insistence that the Vixens do weight training circuits. Balancing carefully on the sill, she knocked twice in quick succession. Thought she saw a shadow move through the drapes, but couldn’t be sure; held her breath, hoping that Kevin would be curious enough to answer.

It took long enough that she began to seriously consider how she would maneuver herself back down the sills – or if it would just be easier to drop down; two stories wasn’t _that _high, really, was it? And if she lowered herself down, all the way to her fingertips, it couldn’t be more than six or –

“Betty?” She looked up so quickly it made her whole body sway. Kevin locked a hand around her wrist to steady her, shaking his head. But Betty caught the quirk of his lips, familiar even after all this time. He was trying not to laugh, and Betty let herself lean into him. Trusted that he would still catch her. “What are you doing? Come on, Catwoman.”

“I wanted to check on you,” she said as she got one leg, and then the other inside. Dropped down into Kevin’s tidy bedroom, everything just as she remembered. “Have you -” She cut herself off, quick, when she finally got a good look at Kevin. His eyes were red – his whole face was red, really, like when they’d used those beauty masks that had only come with Korean instructions.

“We were there, Betty,” he said. His voice trembled, but there was a determined set to his jaw. “In the school. We were all _right there_.”

Betty had thought the same thing. They’d all been right there, delirious with their joy and nostalgia as they’d pinballed around the school; why had the killer decided to go for someone in Centerville? Unless –

“When was the last time you spoke to Moose?”

Kevin smirked – for a second, anyway, before it slid sideways, into something closer to a sneer. “Few weeks ago. He said he’d been thinking of coming back to Riverdale for senior year. Wanted to finish it up with his friends.” His voice had grown thick; Betty looked away, gave him space. “I -” Kevin stopped. Took a shuddering breath. “I told him he should at least come to Senior Night.”

Betty couldn’t stand it anymore. She wrapped her arms around Kevin tight, and it was like that’s what he’d been waiting for all along. Even when she’d first visited, right after the Farm, Kevin hadn’t cried. He’d seemed too numb – vacant in a way that made Betty feel overexposed in comparison, had made her feel almost _vulgar _to be around him. That was what the Farm did. It took and it took and it took from you – your personality, your free will, your thoughts, your _organs _– until you were nothing. But it had tricked you into thinking you were _everything_. 

Now, Kevin held on to her and sobbed. Betty didn’t even try to comfort him – what could she say? It had been her father that had marked Moose for death in the first place; even still, she’d gotten out of it relatively unscathed. Her friends, her family – okay, yes, her dad – but – she carefully filed that away. Her dad had been a monster, and he’d gotten a monstrous end.

Jughead couldn’t have written it any better.

Eventually, when Kevin’s sobs had dried into hiccupping breaths, Betty excused herself to get him a glass of water and give herself some breathing space. She sent Veronica a text, feeling bad for having left her on read: _at Kevin’s. Don’t know when I’ll be home. _Rested her head against the cool refrigerator, trying to fend off a headache.

Her phone buzzed. _give him a hug from me_. _love you, b._

_you too v_

She came back to the bedroom feeling calmer; her hand only shook a little bit as she passed him the glass. Got herself situated opposite him, legs crossed on the foot of the bed; hugged one of his throw pillows to her chest and let the silence stretch on.

“What’s wrong with me?” Kevin asked, soft, but not soft enough to hide the shakiness in his voice. The tiredness, either. “I’m always the one that gets left behind. First Joaquin, Moose, Fangs -”

“Fangs didn’t leave you behind, Kev,” Betty said. “Not willingly, anyway. I don’t – you haven’t said what happened during the Ascension ritual.”

Kevin wasn’t listening. “I don’t even know if what Fangs and I had was real, or if we were just under the Farm’s spell.” He let his head thump back against the wall, eyes closed. “None of that feels real, really. But then I wake up and remember how it felt, falling back from the Ascension and being all alone. And then I remember that I have this scar, and one kidney, and everything is moving on without me. Every_body_ is moving on without me.”

_Falling back_, Betty thought. That was an interesting way to describe it; she had the sudden, unprompted vision of the Ascension, of the members’ bodies, robed in white, laid out on the floor. They were ghosts already. She imagined their souls rising up from their bodies, disappearing into the ether, or whatever great consciousness Edgar Evernever had dreamt up for them.

And then – Kevin, dropping back down into his body. Sudden and violent, like waking up from a nightmare.

But there had been no bodies and no sign of foul play. All hypnosis aside, Charles didn’t believe that the Farmies had left under duress. Perhaps not with their willing consent, but there hadn’t appeared to be signs of a struggle. It just looked they’d folded up their clothes, neatly set their shoes aside, and disappeared.

“And now,” Kevin was saying, “I don’t even know where I belong. The Farm is gone, but how am I supposed to go back to Riverdale High? Everyone knows – I’ll just be that kid that was sucked into a cult and harvested for parts.” He laughed, bitter. “Is that better or worse than only being known as The Sheriff’s Son?” 

Betty knew she would have to proceed carefully. It didn’t feel right to try to pump Kevin for information now; but would she get another chance? Kevin seemed so _tired_. What he was saying now – she felt almost certain that he would only say it once. That he _could _only say it once. For all of his wholesome sweaters and Riverdale cheerfulness, Kevin was good at being guarded.

“And I’m the girl whose mother basically ran the joint,” she finally said with a wry smile. “We’ll get through it together, like we got through Mr. Maslanick’s world history class freshman year.” Then, softer, more sincere: “The Farm had everyone fooled.”

“Not you.”

“No,” Betty agreed. Treading carefully. “But they were close. I saw how I _could _have been drawn in. They said I could talk to ‘Dark Betty,’ and I – I wanted to. I wanted to ask her about me, about us. Why we do the things we do or think the things we think. I don’t believe it’s as simple as some ‘serial killer gene’. If it was, wouldn’t it just be easier to – I don’t know – lock anyone who tests positive up as kids?”

“I’m pretty sure the Geneva Convention would have something to say about that,” Kevin quipped. Actually quipped! Betty laughed. “They said I could talk to my future self. For guidance, and hope, and – a chance to imagine what the Farm could help me accomplish if I reached Ascension.”

Kevin had probably been talking to Edgar Evernever wearing an argyle sweater and strategically placed shadows.

“You don’t need the Farm to tell you that your future self is going to be awesome,” Betty said instead. “Look at you now! You managed to direct _Cheryl Blossom _in a musical – twice! After that, Hollywood will seem like a walk in the park. You’re going to be the next Baz Luhrmann.”

Kevin didn’t look completely convinced, but there was a brightness – even a _lightness _– in him that gave her hope. A flicker of the Kevin Keller she knew and loved. “Thanks, Betty.”

“Mhm. Remember this moment when you’re accepting your Oscar for _Best Director_.”

* * *

The first time Jughead heard the whistle, he thought it was a side effect of the splitting headache that had been growing since the first or second hour of his walk. He’d started out trying to estimate the passage of time, if only to give himself something to focus on as he walked, but that had stopped being fun around the same time that he split his foot open on a stone.

The second time he heard the whistle, he wondered what sort of bird it was.

The third time, he’d gotten close enough to hear it followed up with indecipherable but unmistakable shouting.

Jughead didn’t even try to shout back. His throat was nearly painfully dry, his headache splitting, his chest tight, his hands shaking, but he hadn’t been able to keep any water down. Whether it was from the exhaustion or the stress – hopefully not from contaminated water; hadn’t Hermione taken care of that? Riverdale was supposed to be downstream from Centerville – unless he’d ended up further from Hampden-Pennell than he’d originally thought, which seemed believable, considering how long he’d been walking ----

The whistle, again. More shouting. Louder – closer. Jughead peeled away from the river, ducking under the branches back into the constrictive chill of the trees. He barely noticed it as the thorns tore at his arms; what were a few more scrapes when he was already bloody? He hadn’t stopped to catalogue them, figured he’d take stock once he got home, got safe.

Because that was what he wanted, most of all. He wanted the trailer – the pullout couch, in all of its lumpy glory, his dad thumping around in the kitchen. Betty’s room, with its almost claustrophobic girliness. It didn’t fit her so well anymore, if she’d ever been the Princess of Elm Street to begin with, but it was _hers_, just like he was hers. Jughead wanted an air mattress on the floor of Archie’s bedroom or even his shitty cot in the projection room, back at the Twilight.

God, that felt like a million years ago.

“Abramson! You call that a block? Get your ass back in line – run it again!”

And then, the whistle. A fourth time. Jughead was close enough to see movement through the trees; close enough that the shriek of the whistle made his eye twitch. He pushed a branch away, irritable, and stepped out onto the field. The playing fields were tucked in a distant corner of the Hampden-Pennell campus – close enough to show that HP would help its protegees be well-rounded college applicants, but far enough away that it didn’t take away from the brick-and-ivy intellectualism of the main campus. Jughead hadn’t been to visit them yet – hadn’t had a reason to – and he certainly hadn’t planned to stumble onto them like this: barefoot and bleeding, vision blurry.

The whistle. Again. The coach hadn’t even _needed _to blow it – the lacrosse players had stopped of their own accord, distracted by Jughead wandering on the field. Jughead kept a weary eye on them as they split off into groups; watching for anyone who looked at him a little too long, maybe with surprise. Maybe amusement. Some of the guys did look at him with open curiosity, but even more of them ignored him completely – lazily passed the ball back and forth with nearly invisible flicks of their wrists.

“Hey! What’s going on? Who are you?”

Putting as much derision in the look as he could manage, Jughead turned his head to look at the coach – some suitably young, athletic guy who was probably stuck trying to reclaim his youth after he couldn’t make it in the big leagues. Was there even a ‘big league’ for lacrosse? Maybe that was where he’d gone wrong. Should have taken up tennis. Or golf. 

“Forsythe Pendleton Jones III,” Jughead said. “I know it’s policy to keep our student badge on us at all times, but as you can probably guess, I didn’t exactly plan to be away from campus.”

“Uh -”

“Look, I just want to go back to my room.” As an afterthought: “What time is it?”

The coach glanced at his watch. Deftly stepped into Jughead’s path. “Just after four. Listen, why don’t you hang out here for a second? I’m going to call up to the main offices to confirm your, uh, permissions.”

His _permissions_? Jughead rubbed the heel of his hand against his right eye, hard enough to see stars. It was better than the splitting pain that was spreading into his sinuses. “Are you kidding me? I’ve been walking all day. I just want to go to my room.”

“Mr. Pendleton-Jones,” the coach said; he looked startled when Jughead laughed, hard. Jughead had known when he was accepted to Hampden-Pennell that he would be surrounded by kids with double barrel last names and cars that spoke German, but he wasn’t expecting the money shot that was _Pendleton-Jones_. Maybe if his last name actually _was _Pendleton-Jones, he wouldn’t be having this argument. “You won’t be able to get into your building without your keycard, anyway.”

“I think he’s in my dorm, Benji,” someone said. Then, to Jughead’s back, “You’re in Waldorf, aren’t you? The new scholarship student?” There was some laughter.

Jughead didn’t turn to look at whoever his audience, but he did tilt his head in the direction of the voice. Didn’t look away from the coach – Benji? – as he said, “That’s me. The scholarship kid in Waldorf.”

Benji didn’t look convinced, but with one of his boys vouching for Jughead, he changed tact. Tried to chill out, like he and Jughead were buddies. Unfortunately for him, Jughead didn’t make a habit of getting chummy with authority figures: even minor ones. “That doesn’t explain what you were doing off school property. Jesus. In my day -” which looked to be all of five years ago. Jughead smirked mirthlessly. “- we would try to hitch a ride into town when we snuck out, not wander into the woods and get in a fight with a moose.”

Jughead seriously doubted there were moose in this part of the state.

“I would be happy to tell you, and the security team, and the headmaster exactly what happened, but could I at least get a shirt first? Maybe some shoes? _Definitely _a tetanus shot.”

“I’ll walk him back to Waldorf,” the same voice as before offered. Jughead did look around, now. He recognized the kid, but only barely – he’d been in the crowd during their dorm meeting, the first evening everyone was back. Had probably been in the group that had laughed and roughhoused through the whole thing, flustering their house supervisor more and more with each interruption. “He can get changed and then talk to Dr. Quigley.”

“Yeah,” Jughead said, dripping in condescension. Couldn’t help it, even if it was probably against his better judgement. He felt his back hit the wall – and a cornered Jones was a dangerous Jones. A Jones that would bite without warning. “Thanks but no thanks, buddy. I don’t need a babysitter.”

The kid shrugged, but Benji had perked up. The opportunity to get rid of the Jughead problem _and _earn favor with one of his students was too much for him to pass up. Jughead knew what was coming long before Benji spoke. “Actually, Naz, I think that’s a great idea. I’ll call Quigley and have him meet you two at Waldorf. And then I want you back here. You still owe me drills.”

Naz laughed as he set his helmet down, took off some of his padding. Kept his lacrosse stick in hand as he brushed past both Jughead and Benji – clearly, he was used to leading the way. “Sure thing, coach.” It wasn’t clear if Benji picked up on the sarcasm, but Jughead certainly did.

But if Jughead thought he could find something to like about Naz, he was shut down, fast.

“Hampden goes through scholarship kids quick,” Naz said once they were out of earshot – but not whistle-shot; the sixth blast of the whistle almost brought Jughead to his knees. Thankfully, Naz was too busy doing some complicated maneuver with his stick to notice. “But this must be a new record.”

Jughead didn’t roll his eyes, but it was a near thing. “They’re not going to expel me.”

Naz hummed, grinning a little. He had a mean smile that promised cruelty. Jughead felt better about being alone with him – and his lacrosse stick – if he avoided looking at him.

“Leaving campus without permission is the number one rule around here. These are the Wailing Woods – where witches come to sign their souls away and enter into servitude to the devil. The last thing Quigley wants is to lose more of his students to the trees.” Naz waved his crosse in front of them. A conductor, spelling out Jughead’s future. “_Top Preparatory Academy Student Found Dead in Satanic Ritual_. The housewives ‘round here eat that sort of thing up.”

As a matter of fact, Jughead _had _heard the warnings about the so-called Wailing Woods. It was hard not to, growing up in this area. Mythology and folklore were woven into the tapestry of the land; little of it belonged to people like Jughead, but it was still there for the taking. And for the twisting. He imagined the Wailing Woods story was a little bit of that: a blending of Uktena folklore and white European Christianity. It left a bitter taste in Jughead’s mouth. 

“You really should get out more. All of this solitude is driving you crazy,” Jughead said. Then, maybe a bit belatedly, because his mouth worked faster than his brain a lot of the time, which was saying something: “What do you mean, ‘more’?”

In all of the research that he’d done before making his decision, Jughead hadn’t seen anything approaching a scandal – certainly not one of the _missing students _variety. But then, a place like this? Probably had PR specialists and fixers and lawyers with NDAs waiting around every corner. Anything to keep up the appearance that wealth could keep any tragedy at arm’s length.

“You’ll see.” Naz twisted the lacrosse stick until he had it lying flat across his shoulders, wrists dangled lazily over the shaft. “Or maybe you won’t. Because if the stories are true, no one ever sees it coming.”

“Bro,” Jughead said, the word heavy and unfamiliar in his mouth. His lips curled around it in a smirk. “Have you ever heard of the concept _less is more_? Leave something to the imagination. It’s much scarier that way.”

“I’m not trying to scare you, _bro_,” Naz said, giving as good as he got. “I just think you should know the lay of the land. Learn the rules before you break them, and all that. Because rolling up in the middle of a lacrosse practice after skipping classes all day and sneaking off campus? Not the brightest move you could have made.”

“How’d you know I missed all of my classes?”

Jughead flinched back as Naz swung his crosse down from his shoulders in one smooth movement; Naz noticed and smirked as he brought the stick to a stop a few inches from Jughead’s chest. He tapped it once, twice – not exactly softly, but it wasn’t a _whack_, either.

“It’s a small school, Jughead. We don’t really have secrets around here.” 

* * *

But Riverdale’s entire existence seemed to contradict that very notion; it was like, the smaller the town, the _more _secrets it was bound to have. FP Jones hadn’t been the most diligent of students during his time at Riverdale High, but he still remembered one line from _The Great Gatsby_: _I like large parties. At small parties, there isn’t any privacy_. He hadn’t understood most of the hype around the book, but it was short, and that line had spoken to the part of him that had been deeply, desperately in love with Alice Smith.

Even then, he’d known that it was fragile. That if too many people found out, their relationship wouldn’t be able to survive. So they’d gone deep, deep underground: cramming around one of the lunch tables with their friends, close enough that their thighs were pressed tight together; dates to dive bars in nearby towns where no one would recognize them; slipping into parties together, late - when everyone was already too drunk or high to recognize them as anything other than a Bulldog and some Southside slut. Hiding in plain sight. Blending in. Carving out moments of intimacy amongst the crowds.

What was the alternative? Fruitive hookups in janitor closets between classes? Dodging their parents and their neighbors and pretty much everyone they’d ever known at the trailer park?

It wasn’t sustainable. They had both known it; had both known that they were destined to fail. It was probably why neither of them had fought very hard for it. They both knew how easily things could slip away for people like them. It was better not to get attached in the first place.

Famous last words.

Not that FP was complaining. For all the bullshit that she’d put him through, FP had truly loved Gladys. Maybe he still did – so much had happened during her brief reappearance that he hadn’t had time to consider his own feelings before she was gone again. But this time, she’d left Jellybean, and she’d left the house. Alice’s house. There was symbolism there that FP was sure he’d have to be drunk to understand completely – and he hadn’t touched the stuff since handing the Serpents over to Jughead. With the Whyte Wyrm closed, there was far less temptation.

Anyway, he was certain she’d be back. Until then, he had Charles to focus on. His other son. They’d only met a few times since Charles had come forward after Alice’s disappearance, and only once alone. The other times, FP had had the buffer of Betty and Jughead – another problem that FP wasn’t quite sure how to deal with. There were a lot of reasons he wished Alice was back in Riverdale, but the issue of Betty and Jughead was the highest priority.

“This isn’t fair,” Jughead said, the only time they’d spoken about it.

“Damn right it’s not,” FP said. “But life rarely is.”

In the end, he’d left the kids alone. At least until Alice got back. This seemed like something they would need to tackle together. He didn’t want to be the one to rip the one thing that had been stable in his son’s life over the past few years away from him; Jug didn’t deserve that. Neither did Betty. They’d had no way of knowing about this – hell, FP hadn’t even known about it, not until Alice had shown up on his doorstep in tears. Crying about how she’d good as killed _their_ son by turning him away.

Turned out, things in Riverdale have the strange habit of not staying dead.

From his dashboard, the radio crackled to life. “Just got word of a 10-80, possibly a 10-90, up at Thistle House.”

Sounded about right. FP had been waiting for something like this since he’d left Freyja at Sweetwater. She hadn’t been forthcoming through most of the conversation, but she’d been downright nonresponsive at the end of it; he hadn’t known what to make of her. He’d tried to brush it off, mostly, but he’d asked to be alerted if there were any calls regarding the Blossoms all the same.

He turned down backup.

“Sure about that, boss? The Blossom girl is worthy of backup on a good day.”

FP didn’t laugh. He was sure. He didn’t want backup – he wanted answers on the Mason case. The more eyes he had working on it, the better. He was itching to get back on it, himself, but even though Moose Mason was dead, there was a whole town that was very much alive, and everyone had to take their turn on patrol. “I’m sure. I’ll radio if there’s any trouble.”

“10-4, boss.”

~~

Standard procedure called for the operator to provide the full address of any response location, but the Blossoms – and their properties – were anything but standard. FP had crashed his fair share of parties at Thornhill; Thistle House was quaint in comparison, with nice gardens but without the sprawling grounds and impressive scale of Thornhill. Still, it was impossible to miss.

It would be a lie to say that FP had been the perfect fit for sheriff; he’d almost recoiled from it when Hiram Lodge had pushed his wife too far and Hermione had actually offered it to him. Not in front of her, of course – but privately. Logically, he knew it would be a good move. It seemed right to have a Southsider in the Sheriff’s Office; certainly, the Serpents had had far fewer issues since he’d taken over.

In _practice_, however, FP had faced a steep learning curve. He’d barely scraped through high school – for all of his good intentions, the dreams of going to college and shaking off the dust and bruises of Riverdale, sometimes fate was just a little too strong. When seventeen years of violence had snapped and FP had beat his father’s face in, Forsythe Pendleton Jones Sr. had gone down laughing. “Told you,” he said, chuckling. “Told you – you’re just like me.”

FP silenced him with a kick to the mouth that sent his old man’s teeth flying.

His father had given him a choice, afterward. He could press charges and have FP tried for assault, or FP could stick around. Helped uphold the goddamn family business: hired muscle for the Serpents.

Even with his arm in a sling for a broken collarbone, Forsythe Sr. knew how to land a blow. 

But FP hadn’t just ‘upheld the family business’; he’d rewritten it. He’d taken over, led the Serpents through their best years. Given it success, protected the people that depended on it. And, as it turned out, a sheriff’s office was just another type of gang.

(What was the difference between his leather jacket and his sheriff’s badge, really?)

So when he pulled up to Thistle House and climbed out of his car feeling like he was making a delivery for Penny Peabody, he trusted the feeling. Didn’t go for his gun – not yet. But he walked a little bit more precisely, kept his eyes moving; made sure to look _up_. People – Seprents and deputies both - always forgot to look up until it was too late.

He didn’t see any motion in the upstairs windows; not in the downstairs, either. There was no answer when he knocked on the door the first time – not the second time, either, even when he hollered that it was the sheriff. He couldn’t hear any alarm, but Thistle House had half as many antiques in it as Thornhill had, FP wouldn’t be surprised if old Rose Blossom had splurged on a state-of-the-art silent alarm. 

Tried knocking one more time, then tried the door. Found it locked.

FP stepped back on the crushed gravel drive; spotted a maintenance path around the side of the house. Sunset had leaked shadows out across the Thistle House grounds. At some point, the gardens bled into the old Thornhill hunting grounds. FP had spent a few days out there with a team, looking for any clues as to where Penelope Blossom had disappeared off to after shooting Hal Cooper.

She was a crazy bitch, but she was good at covering her tracks.

When he tried the door in from the garden, it slid open soundlessly. FP knocked on the glass anyway, calling out, “Mrs. Blossom? It’s Sheriff Jones!” But there was still nothing.

Hoping he wasn’t about to stumble over her body, FP inched into the darkness. The Blossoms had always favored heavy fabrics: velvets, mostly, and it muffled everything. All sounds, all light – it seemed to be sucked into the finely woven tapestries. FP moved quietly through the rooms: a study, a kitchen, multiple sitting rooms ---

Each felt more vacant than the last. The type of empty that wasn’t just _absent_, but it was that the room had been _recently _occupied. Each room that he passed through made him feel more claustrophobic, certain that there was someone just out of sight; or maybe he was following someone – was that a flash of someone’s coat, disappearing around the corner? Or just a trick of the light?

He paused. Tried to give himself a second to relax. The Blossoms had a hell of a lot of skeletons in their closets, but that didn’t mean he had to go around chasing ghosts.

A shadow peeled away from the wall.

One fast, straight punch to FP’s unprotected jaw and his head whipped back, his body arched backward, all of his momentum snapping back on him like a broken rubber band. He stumbled back until he could get his footing; had a second to gather himself, a split second to take in his attacker. It was all the time that he needed. He came back ready for a fight – FP Jones had learned how to take a punch early in life.

Freyja was a brutal black shadow that flashed silver every time the dim light caught her hair. Every strike she landed was sharp and precise: a blow to the kidneys, a strike to the sternum that left him breathless and reeling. Blood splattered on Freyja’s cheek; she barely seemed to notice, but he did. For a second – and a second was a lifetime in a fight – it was all that he could focus on.

They stumbled over each other, momentum and limbs tangling as they exchanged blows. This was no bar fight. FP had held a lot of odd jobs for the Serpents – bouncer, barkeep, and resident drunk were only his more respectable roles – and they’d all meant getting his hands dirty on occasion. Some of that dirt hadn’t been able to be washed off; scars that crisscrossed his knuckles like constellations.

The first time they’d met, Freyja had kept her hands in her pockets.

Frustrated, FP wiped at his mouth and got his hand around her throat. He squeezed, tight, ignoring the pounding in his ears. Let it muffle everything else as his focus narrowed down to Freyja, cut on that sharp cheekbone, the bloody nose. FP kept at it until her hands came up scrabble at his wrist and then threw her back, hard. Her back hit the wall with a dull thud and he was on her again, getting right up in her face. He gripped her chin, slippery with blood, and slammed her head back, sharp, against the wall.

He didn’t even notice the gun until it was pressed up against his temple.

She cocked it.

“Who else is here?” Her words were thick with blood; it pooled at the corners of her mouth, dribbled over her chin, landed on FP’s wrist in hot pinpricks.

His hand flexed, involuntarily, around her throat. “What?”

She ground the muzzle of the gun against his skull. He imagined he could smell the gunpowder; the bullet felt heavy on his tongue already. It wasn’t his first – or even his third – time staring down a barrel. “Who did you bring with you? How many?”

FP ran the odds. Decided that this girl didn’t seem the sort who would chase a bluff; didn’t really look like she’d care either way. He was of the school of thought that you shouldn’t go waving a gun around if you weren’t prepared to pull the trigger, and she hadn’t shot him yet. But her hand was steady, and her eyes – fucking eerie, they were, wide enough to catch even the little light there was here – stared at him intently.

“I didn’t request backup,” he told her. “But if I don’t give an all clear -”

The world exploded.

The room slid sideways, pitch dark nothingness broken by a flash of light so bright it left FP blind. He could smell the hot cordite singeing the air. He staggered back, then dropped to the ground. Pain, red like hellfire, blossomed through his skull. Blood dripped warmly down his cheek. 

But he was alive.

He tried to move, to get onto his knees, to stand up – anything, so that he wasn’t sitting dumbly on the ground. But his legs wouldn’t cooperate, and the harder he tried, the more the world spun. There was a heavy burning smell in the air, and the tinny buzz in his ears intensified. FP retched violently onto the Blossoms’ hardwood floor, getting some of it on the oriental rug.

In the end, he settled for getting pressed up against the couch. Reached a ginger hand up to the side of his head, followed the trail of blood to his ear.

Remembered, belatedly: _Freyja_.

She was gone, the room empty. FP grappled for his radio, put the call in. Hoped that Parker wouldn’t be one of the responding officers – he was always quick to say _I told you so_, and FP’s disorientation was fading, leaving only fury in its wake. 

It was unexpectedly frustrating, having someone who could see what he couldn’t. FP hadn’t survived this long by getting caught in his blind spots. He was the angles guy: the one who thought about what others didn’t and would do what others wouldn’t. He was used to people looking to him for dirty work or utility – and he’d allowed it, for most of his life. Until he was the one calling the shots and drawing the big guns, taking bigger and bigger strides to stay ahead of the hounds at his heels.

He heard footsteps; looked to the doorway too quickly, sent it tilting like a funhouse mirror. Freyja was back. She put the gun down, slow and careful, beside his knee and then skirted backwards. For the first time, he realized that it was his own service pistol. Not for the first time, he was glad that she hadn’t shot him; there would have been something particularly horrifying about being killed with his own gun. 

“You shoot anyone?” he asked. Or thought he did; he still could only hear his own voice like it was coming through water. He must have said something, made some sort of noise, because Freyja shook her head. Didn’t offer more of an explanation than that.

“Good.” He reached for the gun; clocked her eyes following the movement. Deliberately, letting her see it every step of the way, he got it back in its holster. He’d wipe it down later, make sure the only fingerprints on it were his own. For as much as good as that would do, with Freyja’s blood on the carpet. As for the rest of Thistle House - “You should go.”

“Will you -?”

“Yeah, yeah,” he said, waving her away. Something about the sight of his own hand moving like that made him feel seasick. He bit back the bile. Gritted his teeth through, “You've caused me enough paperwork already.”

She went. FP let his head thump back against the seat of the couch, tried to drift in the silence – it wouldn’t last long. Already, he thought he could hear sirens approaching; but then, maybe that was just the ringing in his ears trying out a new pitch.

He closed his eyes and tried not to think of whatever Freyja had chased in the darkness.


End file.
